


Utterances

by ComeHitherAshes



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate methods of persuasion, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Aramis is charming, Athos is despairing, Coming Out, M/M, Porthos is pining, Second chapter has switched roles, That Gazelle Has Claws, The night before and the morning after, The target is falling for it
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-06-24
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-06 00:56:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,215
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1838512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ComeHitherAshes/pseuds/ComeHitherAshes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos has had to watch Aramis flirt his way across France for too long, and now even Athos is condoning it. Then again, Aramis isn't just excellent in persuasion when it comes to honeyed words and an intimidating stance - he can quite literally bend anyone around his little finger.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Wild Bunch

**Author's Note:**

> This was written in celebration of The Musketeers finally reaching America. It's set before d'Art, and has no spoilers. It was based off of an idea from Guy Ritchie's 'Rock'n'Rolla', and will feature a very smutty second chapter.

"Remind me again, why we're doin' this?"

Porthos knew he had asked the damn question way too many times and he was finding it harder to disguise the real reason behind it.

The reason was in front of him, Aramis, who looked over his shoulder with a bright smile and replied, "Treville wants information, and what other dashingly attractive men would he send to retrieve it?"

Three days they had been looking for the target, three long, boring, wet days. It had rained from the moment they had left Paris, through each sprawling little town, and over each muddy road. Porthos could feel the dirt embedded into his skin and knew with forlorn certainty that his hat was ruined.

Light flashed twice and he looked up at the skies with as much detestation as he could muster. Thunder rolled overhead, booming and forceful, and Porthos wanted nothing more than to find an inn, curl up next to the fire, and sleep for the next week.

Aramis, of course, spread his arms out and laughed delightedly, the sound spiking through the thunder. He looked rather magnificent with water sluicing down his face, his hair plastered to his neck, his eyes closed as he beamed into the rain.

Utter bastard.

How did Aramis manage to make  _rain_ look good?

Then again, Aramis could make anything look good, even things that Porthos was fairly certain that he had never considered before; never considered until Aramis had appeared in his life with his lidded eyes and heated smiles.

Porthos had been very happy pining after Flea and thinking himself heartbroken. Yes, very happy.

Until  _Aramis_.

But no, it couldn't be that easy, because Aramis had tried coming onto him in the beginning, and Porthos had panicked, panicked so much that he had cut Aramis down with such ruthless efficiency that even the memory of it made him feel sick.

Aramis was a danger to society, he invoked feelings in people that they've never experienced before, and then he just  _offers_ himself, his wink telling you that you'll like it, promise.

It was a promise that Porthos was deadly certain Aramis could fulfil.

But at the time, it had felt a little like being a horse backed into a corner, and so Porthos had lashed out.

Aramis hadn't seemed phased, his passionate expression had shuttered but he simply shrugged the insults off and walked away. The next morning, when Porthos was fairly certain that his friend was going to ignore him,  _he_ had apologised to Porthos.

Aramis had apologised to  _him_ , even though Porthos had said such vile, hateful things.

There was no end to Aramis' grace.

Utter handsome bastard.

And,  _oh,_ didn't he know it? It didn't seem to matter to Aramis that Porthos had rejected him, he carried on in his happy-go-lucky, flirt-with-everything, I-can-bend-fucking-rulers, ridiculously-attractive way. Throwing him the odd glance that managed to make Porthos hot under the collar as if Aramis  _knew_ that he had just been blindsided.

But Aramis had never offered again; not in so many words, anyway.

And Porthos was too chicken-shit to pursue the elegant swine, especially when he had no idea how it was supposed to work.

How do you woo a man, anyway?

His head found his rain-slicked hands and he groaned exhaustedly. His life had been so much easier before Aramis had glided into it.

Darker too, though.

"Your tendency for drama is beginning to eclipse even Aramis'," Athos remarked dryly, pulling his horse into the steady plodding that Porthos had maintained for the last few miles.

Athos was the one saving grace in this world-altering life. With cool-headed Athos around, Porthos could just tune everything out and simply obey his shrewd orders, not needing to worry about how he was going to restrain himself from watching Aramis stretch or Aramis laugh or Aramis-

" _That_ needs to be rectified," Aramis announced, his neck arching proudly as he rode straight-backed through the mist, looking for all the world as if he were a king amongst paupers.

"Didn't take much work," he muttered, and  _somehow_ , Aramis heard and flashed him a cheeky grin.

Porthos bit back the eager noise that wanted to sound from his throat, tamped down the want that surged in his gut, held all of that powerful emotion in check that had surged just from one damn smile.

Utter,  _utter_ bastard.

"I hate this rain. Athos, mate, enough's enough."

Athos gave him a sidelong smirk at his whining but nodded deliberatively. "This doesn't look like it will pass soon," he said as he eyed the broody clouds. "We'll stop at the next inn."

Porthos thought that he might sag in relief, already picturing warm food and a comfy bed… Or, more likely, lying awake with the knowledge that Aramis was probably tumbling some pretty barmaid, his quick fingers knowing  _just_ where to stroke to elicit the throatiest moans-

He coughed a little too loudly, earning twin surprised looks when he said, "Why don't we just make camp?"

"In this weather?" Athos asked with rueful amusement. "We'll catch our deaths."

"I don't know about you,  _mes chers,_ but I find I hunger for warmth, tonight."

Porthos was no longer sure whether Aramis deliberately layered his words with lewd intention, or whether he was just reading too much into it. Judging by the way Athos rolled his eyes though, he wasn't imagining it.

"Please do your best to stay away from the innkeeper's daughter this time. I really don't want to have to leave at the break of dawn."

"How was I to know who she was? She  _served_  me so attentively that night."

Okay, there was definitely a small smirk aimed his way that time, and Athos completely missed it, because Athos wasn't  _looking_ for it.

No, only Porthos had the painful pleasure of witnessing Aramis' sly smiles, because he was the only idiot who couldn't take his eyes off of the slender Musketeer.

Aramis had to know that the blush on Porthos' cheeks was solely because his head was full of images of Aramis with his head tipped back, his hand possessively on some woman's head as she bobbed up and down with his cock in her mouth as he groaned appreciatively-

Porthos' horse fidgeted and danced underneath him, reading his distress in the way that every muscle had stiffened as he focused so intently on not letting anything show.

Aramis merely laughed, thankfully completely misreading his reaction. "Porthos, I never took you for a prude."

"S'not prudish, just…" he trailed off uselessly, looking to Athos for support.

"Sensible," Athos came to his rescue, and added a warning look to Aramis. "No one except us in our rooms tonight, Aramis."

Aramis sighed heartily, as if he had been told to clip the grass of France. "As you wish, Athos."

Athos glanced at Porthos, trying to share a look of exasperation that Porthos was just a beat behind reciprocating. When Aramis trotted off haughtily, Athos said under his breath, "Our friend is a magnet for trouble."

"He's a magnet for somethin'."

Athos snorted in amusement. "Keep an eye on him tonight."

"Why, where you gonna be?"

"In my bed, because  _I_ had Aramis-watch last time." When Porthos frowned at him, he added dryly, "You remember, the Comtesse who appeared at breakfast with all those marks on her neck?"

"How does he  _do_ that?"

"I have no idea, I watched him like a hawk."

"You were drinking."

"I am very capable of keeping watch with a drink in my hand, you know that... But Aramis is like a master thief."

Porthos grunted an agreement and braced himself for a night of watching Aramis make eyes at various patrons until one of them finally succumbed to his onslaught.

A night of torture until Porthos could fall into bed and palm himself off to thoughts of Aramis.

Why did he stay with him? Why did he put himself through this? These were the same questions that always wailed in his head when Aramis tormented him so.

Aramis reappeared in a canter and called joyfully, "There's an inn ahead, hurry  _mes amis_!"

Porthos immediately brightened, and he wasn't sure if it was the promise of warmth from a fire, or the promise of warmth of sitting next to Aramis and them both making ribald comments about the other patrons.

Aramis reined in at his side, flashed him a smirk, and then thwacked Porthos' horse on the rump so that it startled into a gallop.

Porthos was too captivated by the sly tilt of Aramis' lips, and by the time he had managed to soothe his mount, Aramis and Athos sped in alongside him to the inn's stables, Aramis with a wink and a murmured, "That's more like it," that managed to make Porthos flush.

Not for the first time, did Porthos wonder whether Aramis did it on purpose, if he knew that his feelings had changed and that Porthos wanted nothing more than to ravage the charming Musketeer.

He'd confront Aramis in Paris, he'd considering confronting him in Paris, he'd certainly contemplate considering confronting him in Paris.

He was such a coward.

Safely inside from the rain and damning thoughts, Porthos scanned the inn automatically, looking for the doors and windows, calculating escape routes – it told a lot about the company he kept that he wasn't looking for his benefit anymore, but for Aramis'.

No one in the Court of Miracles could create trouble like Aramis could, and his wasn't done with a sword, it was with a  _smile._

Utter unbelievable bastard.

Idly, Porthos made note of a few faces; it never hurt to size up any potential drunken brawlers before a fight started – and being brutally honest, there was probably going to be one. If Aramis got loose then someone always ended up offended, and it was always up to Athos to either soothe their ruffled feathers, or Porthos to punch someone out.

His eye kept travelling over the same man, a warning pinging in his tired, rain-sodden mind.

"Well, I'll be damned," he murmured, and Athos and Aramis immediately followed his line of sight. "It's him, isn't it?"

"Trouveau, yes, so it is," Athos replied quietly, a contemplative expression on his face as he regarded the very man that they were sent here to extract information from.

"Perhaps this was fate, meeting our target at the very place we stopped for the night," Aramis said with a shrug. "Although, I  _had_  been looking forward to a quiet night."

Aramis smirked at Porthos' raised eyebrow. There was no such thing as a quiet night for Aramis; it was always loud, whether it was the sex or the escape afterwards.

Shaking his head but unable to hide his laugh, he looked to Athos for guidance. "What now?"

"I hadn't expected to find him in a tavern, that makes this difficult."

"Yeah, we can't exactly rough him up."

Aramis was suspiciously quiet, his gaze fixated on the target like he was watching prey, and then a very predatory smile crept over his face. "Maybe we won't need to."

Athos seemed to cotton on immediately, tilting his head to the side in consideration. "Do you think so?"

"I  _know_ so," Aramis practically purred, and Porthos looked between them before finally lighting on Trouveau again. The man was sat against one wall, his arm slung around a smaller man's shoulders as he leaned almost close enough to kiss him.

Porthos blinked. "Wait, you think he's  _gay?_ "

"You can't tell?" Aramis asked with a tiny quirk to his lip that seemed to mock him. Porthos stared at it, his usual banter failing him in the presence of that thinly veiled taunt. Aramis merely chucked him on the chin and walked past. "I'll get the rooms, then."

Porthos was still at a loss for words, but finally managed to blurt out, "You seriously think he's gay?"

Athos crossed one arm and smoothed his moustache with the other, deep in thought. "If Aramis says so, he has a compass for that sort of thing."

"And what," Porthos remembered to whisper, but did it fiercely, "Aramis is gonna charm the information out of him?"

Athos shrugged. "It was his idea; I wouldn't have asked it of him."

Porthos stared dumbly at the man he had thought was the most clear-headed of them all, and thought he and Aramis were both mad. Slowly, he turned back to Trouveau, evaluating him entirely differently now that he had this new, and slightly perturbing, information.

Trouveau was broad, his shoulders muscled and arms thick. He was, Porthos realised with a sickening clench of his stomach, built rather like him.

Aramis was about to spend the night flirting with a man that looked just like him.

"We should've camped in the rain and died," he muttered bitterly, but pretended not to notice Athos' questioning brow.

"This place is cheap," Aramis said, reappearing with a wrinkle of his nose, "We have a room each."

Porthos hoped to the God that Aramis prayed to that  _cheap_ was the real reason he had booked three rooms, and not that he was planning on inviting the target back to his bed.

There was a voice in the back of Porthos' head that said he was not allowed to be jealous, he could be envious, but not jealous.

 _He_ was the one who had spurned Aramis.

Now life was paying him back twenty-fold, and it was starting to hurt.

"Well, good luck, Aramis," Athos said through a yawn, clapping Aramis on the shoulder but lowering his head to say quietly, "Remember that you don't have to do this, if you want to stop at any point, just give Porthos a sign."

Aramis smiled at him and it was fond enough to make Porthos forget what was happening and smile back. "Will you come to my rescue,  _mon cher?_ "

"Just say the word," he replied gruffly, nodding farewell when Athos tipped his hat at him.

Aramis herded him to a table and then strolled off to buy some wine, passing Trouveau's table so nonchalantly that Porthos had to drag his gaze from Aramis' slender form to see Trouveau look up and keep looking.

An absolute danger to society, was Aramis.

Porthos clenched his hands under the table, fighting back a sudden urge to start a fight and punch that interested look off of Trouveau's face.

He shouldn't be jealous, he  _couldn't_ be jealous.

Trouveau disentangled himself from his incredibly drunk companion, and eyed Aramis like a farmer eyed a particular thoroughbred horse.

When rage fired through him, Porthos admitted that he was probably jealous.

Trouveau wasn't wasting time, he sauntered over to the bar and murmured something in Aramis' ear that had him laughing and handing the man  _Porthos'_ bottle.

Utter selfish bastard.

Why had Athos allowed this, Athos was supposed to be the intelligent one. Why had Athos  _left_ him here to witness this idiot flirt with Aramis who had let a very innocent smile light his attractive features.

So that was how Aramis would play it, he would pretend to be the oblivious quarry when in actuality it was Trouveau who was being stalked.

Porthos had to admire Aramis' skills; it took a gargantuan two minutes for Trouveau to hustle him beside the bar, hidden from most of the room until Aramis angled himself for Porthos' anxiety to simmer down a little.

It roared back into jealousy when the man brazenly leaned into Aramis' space.

Aramis hadn't just mastered the 'come-hither' glance, oh no. Aramis had  _perfected_ it. It didn't just say 'come-hither', it said 'come-hither-and-fuck-me-and-I-swear-you'll-see-stars'.

It was some kind of sorcery, a black magic that he weaved with his long, graceful fingers and the languorous heat that constantly burned in his molten chocolate eyes.

Porthos was only too happy to fall under his spell, if only he would  _cast_ it on him again.

Perhaps this was his punishment for denying him so brutally all of that time ago. His friend had laid a secret bare to him and Porthos had spat in his face, so now he had to watch as someone  _else_ got to see those secrets, someone else got to see the way Aramis nibbled his lip when he wanted something.

He was doing it now, his white teeth clamping slightly on his lower lip, the action making it plump and pink as he smiled. It said that if you were kind enough to give him what he wanted, he would worship at your feet forevermore.

Utter charming bastard.

It was a gesture that Aramis now coupled with a glance at the floor and back up again under his lashes, as if he were a little unsure, a little shy.

Aramis was as shy as a leopard, one that didn't truly change its spots but could hide perfectly in the long grass, pretending that he was something innocent so that when you lowered your guard, he jumped on you before you could even realise that he was a ruthless hunter.

For now, he was a gazelle, tall and lithe, poised as if to run at the slightest scare and it made a man so very protective – and judging by the way Trouveau was bracing an arm by Aramis' head as if to shield him from the world, it was working.

Porthos knew that Aramis was clever, that he was cunning, that he managed to wind people around his dextrous fingers with such skill that it should be illegal. What he was doing now was all of those things.

Aramis would whisper sweet nothings into the target's ears, tell him all of the things that he will do to him (no, won't do, because Aramis wouldn't, he wouldn't need to, please God say that he won't need to), and then when the target is eating out of the palm of his hand, Aramis will dive in for the kill and scarper.

He'll scarper upstairs where Porthos will be waiting for him and if that large fucker Trouveau thinks of following him, Porthos will knock him cold and possibly break his nose for the absolute agony of watching them.

Despite himself, Porthos was hooked.

He watched the scene as if it were played out for his delectation, but that intriguing thought was sobered when he thought of how Aramis would not return with him to his rooms tonight, for Porthos to pore over and touch and taste.

No, Aramis would be elsewhere, with someone that had accepted him with broad, eager arms.

And Aramis, apparently, was taking full advantage of that, because when Trouveau ducked his head to Aramis' ear, Aramis exposed his neck and the movement  _begged_ to be bitten.

Porthos was simultaneously furious and aroused.

Still, he watched with sick fascination as to what made Aramis shudder and what made him roll his eyes in boredom. Aramis demurely turned away when Trouveau tried to take a kiss from his well-nibbled lips, but Porthos had to wonder whether it was just because the target was a stranger, a potential threat.

He wondered whether Aramis would let  _him_  bite the sly smile that had taunted him so for long.

Porthos pictured himself in that space,  _his_  large hands spanning Aramis' slender waist,  _his_  broad shoulders that Aramis clutched onto,  _his_  bruising kisses along Aramis' proud neck.

He wanted it so much that it  _hurt,_ a strangled noise arose in his throat at the burning desire that washed through him.

Porthos closed his eyes to try and stifle the pain, but all he could see was Aramis, Aramis' mouth open on a cry of pleasure, Aramis' eyes blown with desire, Aramis' hair messy from where Porthos had tangled his fingers in it.

With a tiny whine, he opened his eyes again, and choked on a breath.

Aramis was looking at him.

Mouth parted, eyes blown, hair messy, and his expression was so full of 'come-hither-and-fuck-me' that Porthos almost prepared to deck Trouveau and shove Aramis against the wall so that he could take him then and there.

Take him apart and make him  _moan_ because he had made Porthos wait for  _so fucking long._

Aramis had shown him Heaven and then kept the golden gates closed.

Utter addictive bastard.

Completely unable to look away, Porthos kept his eyes locked with Aramis' as the Musketeer's supple body bucked under a bite on the collarbone.

Concern was the only thing that managed to override the raucous heat, and he suddenly worried that this was meant to be Aramis giving him the signal that he wanted an out.

Porthos stood, but froze when Aramis subtly shook his head from side to side, eyes almost fluttering shut when Trouveau paid particular attention to his jugular. The concern faded and the heat reigned once more, spiked when Aramis whispered in Trouveau's ear and his eyes widened slightly at what he heard.

"Atta boy," Porthos murmured, a strange sort of pride entwining with the need that still bubbled in his stomach, Aramis had the information.

Aramis gave him one last look that seemed to linger deliciously, and then almost gently pushed Trouveau back to smile nervously and cast a glance upstairs.

That was Porthos' sign to move.

He clattered up the stairs and every moment that Aramis didn't appear, he became more and more anxious.

Finally, taking it no more, he stood in his room's doorway and watched the hallway, fighting the urge to go looking for Aramis,  _hoping_ that he would appear at any moment.

Appear entirely composed and  _not_ as if he had just had a quick roll in the hay.

Too much time had passed, he didn't care if he interrupted the flirtatious Musketeer, he wouldn't sit idly by and let Aramis be manhandled by a  _target_ -

On amazingly silent feet, Aramis scampered up the stairs and collided with his chest, whispering urgently, "Quick, close the door!"

Porthos bundled him in, hauling him around the waist with one arm, and slamming the door shut with the other. "You okay?"

"Yes, yes, I promised him I'd be right back, that I had to do something."

Porthos hesitated. Aramis was pressed against his chest, breathing heavily, and Porthos didn't want to let him go. Wetting his suddenly dry mouth, he asked uncertainly, "You gonna go back?"

Aramis' attitude changed instantly as he looked down and up again, a sultrier version of before, completely bereft of uncertainty. "That depends on whether I have  _something_ to do."

Porthos gaped at the almost open-invitation.

Only almost, because Aramis was not going to ask again, not after last time.

The sword was definitely in Porthos' hands.

"Aramis," he started uncertainly, not entirely reassured by the way that Aramis settled against his arm with an expectant expression, as if he had waited for this.

Fuck it, he had watched Trouveau touch Aramis, watched so many others touch Aramis, and he couldn't go another  _minute_ without touching him either.

But first, he had to apologise.

"Aramis, I'm a twat," he said simply, pleased to see a smile dance on Aramis' lips. "I was cruel, I was outta line, and most importantly, I was wrong.

"I was so wrong, Aramis. I thought I was happy before you, but I knew I wasn't when, without you, I was fucking miserable. I can't go another  _day_ without letting you know how fucking sorry I am."

Aramis was quiet, but thankfully he still seemed amused, and he was still relaxed in the circle of Porthos' arms. "Is that all?"

"No," he continued, and took a deep breath, because Aramis' pulse was beating ever so temptingly in his jugular, and Porthos desperately wanted to bite it and make him shudder.

So he did.

Slowly, very slowly, just in case Aramis – probably rightfully – decided that he didn't deserve forgiveness. But Aramis lifted his chin, exposing the proud arch of his neck, and murmured, "You were saying?"

Porthos chuckled, and it must have vibrated through him, because when he pressed his lips to Aramis' skin, Aramis sighed happily.

"I was saying," he said through nips at Aramis' throat, "You're the most outrageous, flamboyant, stunningly attractive man that I've ever seen, and you've driven me through absolute Hell."

"You deserved it," Aramis replied huskily, and Porthos felt his smile against his cheek.

"I did, but never again."

"Is that a request?"

Porthos pulled back to look Aramis in the eye as seriously as he could, trying to convey how absolutely vital Aramis was to his life. "Please, Aramis, don't let me die without the taste of you on my lips."

Aramis' eyes went from amused to aroused in a blowing of pupils, and Porthos couldn't restrain his groan at finally having that look bestowed on him.

"Bed," he said, and then tried to phrase it like a question.

Aramis' agreement was breathy, "Bed,  _mon cher_."

That endearment had never sounded better, coming as it was from Aramis' nibbled lips, and Porthos had to stop in his tracks to stare at them.

Aramis' tongue darted out and Porthos fixated on it, leaning in slowly in case Aramis bolted like the gazelle he pretended to be.

Aramis met him midway, his lips crashing so hungrily against his that it finally broke down the wall of restraint that Porthos had been trying to keep up, lest he lose all dignity and beg.

Instead, he muttered a shameless thank you into Aramis' mouth whose laugh was darkly victorious, "Only for you, Porthos."

Those leopard's claws scratched against his collarbone, just hard enough to blur the line between pleasure and pain, brilliant enough for Porthos to vainly strangle a moan that had Aramis grinning against his lips.

Now that Aramis knew that he had struggled all of this time, there was definitely a smug sense of satisfaction in Aramis' eager eyes. "Why, Porthos, not a prude at all."

"Told you I wasn't."

Aramis' thigh slotted ever-so-neatly between his and pushed against the aching hardness that had long throbbed for Aramis, only ever for Aramis. Porthos had tried so very frantically to get the man out of his head, diversify, explore, but he always knew that only Aramis would end his torture, like a tall glass of water to a man dying of thirst.

"Did you  _hunger,_ Porthos? Did you lie awake," Aramis arched his leg for emphasis, " _thinking_ of me?"

"Every fucking night for the last forever of nights."

"Poor darling," Aramis murmured, a sadistic tilt to his smile.

"Yeah, yeah, you gonna keep me waiting, or what?"

"Keeping you waiting seems to be the most fun thing I've done in a long time."

Utter cheeky bastard.

Porthos drove his fingers into Aramis' hair, tugging on the curls until his neck was exposed again, and he dragged his teeth along the length, sucking away any marks that weren't his. He bit the muscle that had tantalised him every single time that Aramis had stripped, clamped his teeth there as he ran his free hand down Aramis' back and ground against his thigh.

When he pulled back, Aramis was blissed out and gasping, focusing on him for a brief moment to pant, "Bed?"

"I dunno, keeping you waiting seems to be-"

Aramis cut him off by scoring his nails over his scalp and absorbing Porthos' groan with his own, rocking against him so temptingly that Porthos was half-convinced he was going to finish immediately.

Aramis' chuckle was low and sumptuous, "Eager, are we?"

"I ain't waiting another minute."

Aramis grinned appreciatively and flourished a bottle from his jacket with such perfect timing that Porthos had to pause for a moment to say, "You're way too prepared."

"If I wasn't," he replied breathlessly, "We couldn't do this."

Porthos weighed his head to the side. "Good point," he said before diving down to capture that smug smile in another kiss.

Aramis tugged at his shoulders until Porthos had to disentangle his hands from those wild curls and brace them either side of Aramis' head as they fell onto the bed, Aramis with an anticipatory moan and Porthos with a surprised grunt.

Aramis was scary good at this.

Aramis arched underneath him, that long sinuous length of gorgeous Musketeer pressing against every inch until Porthos attempted to still him with a bite of his jugular.

Except that Aramis had to completely undo him by whispering, "I wanted you just like this."

He groaned against the thumping beat on his lips, against the pounding heat on his hips, "Aramis, stop."

"I can't,  _mon ami_ , having you in my bed-"

"We're in mine, actually."

Aramis ducked his head and then pain surged deliciously along Porthos' shoulder, the hurt turning to wet heat when Aramis' laved open-mouthed kisses along his chest. He pulled back slightly to murmur across his skin, "Tell me what you wanted, Porthos."

Porthos grumbled, unable to think coherently when Aramis' hands so deftly undid his jacket, Aramis' fingers pushing from his collarbone to his biceps with just enough force to make him shudder in pleasure.

"Porthos," Aramis crooned.

"I wanted you naked and writhing beneath me," he bit out, the words turning into a torrent now that they could finally be released, "Ever since you cornered me in that fucking stable, with your fuck-me stare and sly, seductive smirks, I wanted you."

Aramis shivered at the intensity of his voice and Porthos realised that he was finally getting what he wanted, what they had  _both_ wanted.

"I can't believe I turned you away," he said suddenly, fervour turning to forlorn at the memory of how he had treated him.

Aramis' fingers framed his jaw, and Porthos knew that Aramis was going to say something heartbreakingly gallant again, so he interrupted him by murmuring, "I'm sorry, Aramis."

A smile that seemed so very vulnerable tilted those sensuous lips and Porthos wanted nothing more than to kiss them.

He didn't this time, the mood had changed and he wouldn't take from Aramis what wasn't given freely, so he simply rested their foreheads together and murmured again, "Please forgive me."

Aramis laughed quietly, a little hitch to it that made Porthos tighten his hold. "I forgave you a long time ago, you fool."

The colossal propensity of Aramis' loving nature still managed to astound him, and so all he could manage was a whispered, "Thank you."

Aramis lifted upwards and gave him a fleeting kiss with lips that turned to a smirk, "But I will never forgive you if you don't immediately take off this jacket."

"I'll never deny you again," he breathed, and stood to tear the leather off of his arms.

Aramis, however, crossed his behind his head and, whilst eyeing him appreciatively, said, "I will hold you to that."

"I've got better things for you to hold."

"Lecherous oaf."

"Charming bastard," he shot back immediately, but they were both grinning by now.

Porthos grinned well up until his jacket was thrown aside and Aramis raised an eyebrow as, with his fingers, he made an 'off' gesture at his shirt – a request Porthos didn't deny.

Porthos was still grinning when he hooked his thumbs in his belt and made a questioning noise, to which Aramis just lifted himself off of the bed and idly tugged at one of the strings to his breeches.

Aramis' black magic was at work, because no knot that Porthos had ever tied had ever come undone that easily.

The bottle was back in his magician's hands again, and he shook it invitingly, heat flaring in those chocolate depths when Porthos took it.

When Aramis' fingers trailed down his own stomach and disappeared to a place that Porthos had fucking  _dreamed_ of, Porthos stifled a groan and had to re-evaluate the situation.

"Yeah, you're like a wrapped gift and I don't know how long I can last."

Aramis paused then, his hand still down his breeches, before moving it slowly and murmuring, "I guess you should keep saying sorry then, because  _I_ can last all night."

"Oh really?" Porthos growled, lunging forward to brace over Aramis again, who shuddered lightly at the crowding but managed to nod nonchalantly.

Utter lying bastard.

And Porthos would prove it, prove it in all of the ways that he  _knew_ Aramis loved, because he had been watching him intently for far too long.

Porthos set his jaw and let all of his pent up hunger roar through his eyes, felt it roughen his voice as he said lowly, "Aramis."

Aramis stilled and, just like Porthos had dreamed, bucked involuntarily, a surprised look entering his face.

"I've had my eye on you  _very_ closely, Aramis Rene d'Herblay," he growled, savouring the stunned arousal that had made Aramis freeze and writhe in short bursts. "I've watched you flirt, I've watched you fight, I've even watched you fuck, once."

Again, Aramis stilled, a desperately interested question in his eyes, but Porthos merely flashed his teeth and relished the fine shiver that went through the body that he had seen moving gracefully over a bent back.

"Now I've got you all to myself, mine to flirt, mine to fight, mine to  _fuck._

"And you're telling me," he asked with a raise of his eyebrow, and very deliberately showed Aramis his hand that was now empty of bottle but glistening with its contents, "That you can  _last?"_

"Porthos-" Aramis gasped, and cried out when Porthos simultaneously ground their hips together (the friction delicious), dragged his teeth along collar bone (the marking addictive), and swiped his fingers swiftly down Aramis' cleft (the temptation heady).

Aramis' hips jerked. Once. Twice. And then swore a breathless streak of blue in what Porthos was fairly certain, was Spanish.

" _El nombre de Dios,_ " Aramis panted, and Porthos tutted, not bothering to hide his shit-eating grin as tiny twitches still wracked Aramis' form – each one sending bolts of heat against Porthos' cock.

"It's still blasphemy if you say it in another language, you know."

Aramis managed a pathetic attempt at a frown and muttered between dragged in breaths, "And yet  _you_ have the devil's tongue."

"You've not even felt it yet," he murmured, and Aramis groaned pitifully.

Porthos forced himself to merely watch Aramis try to put himself back together again, enjoyed the tumble of his curls and the heaving of his – now, quite sticky – chest.

It was only when he realised that Aramis wasn't trying very hard at all and then heard the ragged edge to his voice say, "It would be a shame to waste that oil, don't you think?"

Porthos laughed around a groan when Aramis arched underneath him, "Insatiable."

Aramis' smile was sinful and greedy and everything that Porthos had expected of the man that had dominated his thoughts since he had first witnessed that 'come-hither' look.

"And all yours to sate," Aramis whispered, his hands trailing down Porthos' abdomen to cup the painful mound below.

"Fuck me," Porthos swore, already fit to finish, riding the edge from seeing Aramis come apart.

"Gladly,  _mon cher,_ " Aramis purred, and then his skilled fingers wrapped skin-to-skin and rubbed in one smooth motion that felt like heated silk.

And Porthos was spent, groaning to the sound of Aramis' pleased laugh. Dazedly, Porthos pressed kisses to Aramis' lips that made the man sigh happily into his mouth.

"I take it the wait was worth it?"

"Ask me again in the morning," he muttered, controlling his shaking muscles to pull back and frown at the mess between them. Aramis merely tilted his head and smiled through lidded eyes, looking the picture of sated.

Sated and thoroughly his.

"Yeah, it definitely was," he answered, unable to deny that languorous heat that still – and had always – flared between them, "But I'm not done with you yet."

"I should hope not," Aramis replied archly, and cast a glance to the corner of the room where a bucket of water sat. Porthos was only too happy to fetch it, and took great delight in flicking the cold drops of water along Aramis' chest to make him yelp.

Porthos chuckled and tore a strip from his discarded shirt, ducking his head when Aramis' affront turned to pleased surprise. "Have to clean you up," he mumbled, and gently sluiced away the evidence of a time long waited.

Aramis caught his spare hand and laced their fingers together, smiling tenderly when he said, "Thank you,  _mon cher,_ " before tugging hard enough to make Porthos overbalance and abandon the wet cloth. Leaning over Aramis again, there was definitely a stirring against both of their hips, but Aramis' kiss was sweet and light. "Come to bed."

Porthos hesitated at the gentle request, at the offer of a lover's comfort rather than explicit intimacy. Aramis had given him the forgiveness that he wasn't sure he deserved, and now he was also offering him the prize of sleeping by his side?

"I snore," he said needlessly.

"I know, I've shared a camp with you."

"I cuddle," he said uncertainly.

"I know, I've shared a fire with you."

"I-," Porthos cut himself off before he said something stupid, something that explained the overwhelming lightness that had exploded through his chest. It began and ended with Aramis, just as he did – for everything paled when Aramis was not there.

"I know," Aramis said, nudging their noses together, "I've shared a life with you."

Porthos sagged in ridiculous relief and, with some shuffling, divested Aramis of his shirt and manhandled him until his back was pressed to Porthos' chest; Aramis' arm reached back to lazily scratch his scalp as Porthos murmured sweet nothings into the hot skin of Aramis' neck.

Time was immeasurable when Aramis was the constant. If he wasn't there, the days passed too slowly, and when he was there, the blissful hours turned to too short minutes.

But at last, with Aramis' heartbeat pulsing under his palm, Porthos was content.

Utter perfect bastard.

 

* * *

 

Morning broke far too soon.

Even if they hadn't been running on little sleep  _anyway,_ they only ended up with a few hours of peaceful rest, and most of that had been Porthos waking up just to delight in the knowledge that Aramis was sleeping peacefully in his arms.

Aramis had also wriggled onto his back in the night, but Porthos' palm was still flush to his chest, offering a reminder that life truly had become this wonderful – and he laughed at himself to think that disgustingly sappy thought.

Unable to help himself, he rose up on the other arm to look down at the sinuous stretch of Aramis' tanned body. Aramis had thrown the sheets off of their torsos at some point, muttering that Porthos was enough of a blanket – and Porthos had taken that role very seriously.

With one of Aramis' legs thrust between his, Porthos had practically covered all of that delicious tan flesh with his own darker skin.

A possessive thrill ran through him as he let his gaze travel from Aramis' feet to the mess of curls at his head, arousal flaring as he thought of all the dreams he could finally make come true.

He locked eyes with chocolate ones.

Aramis had woken up, and he looked like the cat that got the cream, so much so that it made Porthos grin instinctively as he asked, "What you beaming at?"

"Athos said that I could have no one except us in our rooms, and I do believe I obeyed that command rather well,  _and_ got my own way."

Porthos chuckled, enjoying the way Aramis' hand absent-mindedly made soothing motions along his back, as if he had always wanted to do so but Porthos had never let him.

The thought made him hunger for more, as if he had a well of attraction that he had denied himself for so long and now he wanted to gorge on it. And why shouldn't he? Aramis was delectably his for the taking, and they didn't have anywhere to be 'til- well, whenever Athos showed up.

Time was immeasurable when Aramis was at hand.

"You just love obeying, don't you?" he murmured lowly.

Aramis' eyes flashed, his smile turning sweet and yet somehow very predatory, a glimpse of the leopard within. "I thought that, perhaps," Aramis began slyly, "I should properly forgive you."

"Hadn't you already?" he asked, unable to hide the note of anxiety in his voice.

Aramis gave him a look that said to stop worrying, and then slowly sucked the tip of one finger between his lips.

Porthos' inhaled a sharp breath, focusing on that blasphemous little mouth, and then blurted, "I did say sorry a lot."

Aramis' smile was very pleased, as if Porthos had said the exact thing that he wanted. "You did, and so I suppose you deserve forgiveness."

Porthos couldn't speak anymore, because Aramis hooked the arm that he had been bracing on so that he fell back against the bed and Aramis rose over him, licking his lips until Porthos groaned.

With a flick of the sheets that really shouldn't have been so erotic, Aramis lowered until his lips brushed Porthos' chest, licking a path downwards that was slowly sending Porthos mad.

" _Aramis,_ " he called, just edging on a plea, but couldn't bring himself to either beg or force that attractive head to more meaningful pursuits. Instead, he tugged one curl, and fixated on the flickering of Aramis' eyelids.

Fascinated, he twirled one hand in the tangled mess and pulled until Aramis groaned softly, his breath fluttering over the still untied laces in Porthos' breeches. With magician's hands that moved  _far_ too slowly for Porthos' sanity, Aramis brushed one slender finger along Porthos' length.

Porthos strangled a plea, but then noticed that Aramis had gone preternaturally still. Mouth open on a question, Porthos recognised the look of 'caught-red-handed' in Aramis' eyes – having seen it far too often from the interrupter's perspective before.

And every time had been like a kick to the gut.

Aramis yanked the sheets over his head and laid flush against him, his mouth so tantalisingly close to Porthos' cock that it took him a moment to realise what was about to happen.

The door smashed open and Porthos blindly grabbed for Aramis' pistol, aiming it at the door before he realised that it was Athos standing there, water dripping down his face.

"Please tell me that Aramis is the lump under the covers; his room's empty and Trouveau's downstairs demanding his blood."

"Er," Porthos managed eloquently, and Athos strode into the room and slammed the door behind him.

"Athos,  _mon ami,_ " Aramis called unabashedly from his position plastered to Porthos' side, his breath hot against the nakedness of his hip, "It's too early for loud noises."

Athos paused, raised his eyes to the ceiling, and then pinched the bridge of his nose. "Now tell me you have the information."

There was a shuffling, and then Aramis propped himself up, his hair a complete mess as he said affrontedly, "Of course I do." His tone dropped to positively smug when he added, "I always get what I want."

Porthos couldn't help his chuckle, especially when Aramis fell back onto the bed and stretched fluidly, the sheets pooling about his waist in such a way that made Porthos wish Athos would fuck off.

Athos shook his head in amusement when he looked at them both. It was obvious what had happened, even if Aramis hadn't practically said as much.

"As happy as I am for you both and despairing for my own sanity, get dressed, Trouveau's threatening to break doors down in his search for 'that little flirt'."

"He's got you termed, Aramis," Porthos murmured and Aramis grinned at him from his pillow.

"I didn't hear you complaining, in fact-"

Athos made an exasperated noise and settled into his leader stance. "Enough, up, dressed, out of the window."

" _With_ my lover? What fun," Aramis laughed.

"I said I'd rush to your rescue," he chuckled. "I'll even catch you if you jump from the sill."

"My hero," Aramis simpered with a flutter of his eyelashes.

Unable to resist, Porthos leaned in and captured those charming lips in a kiss, breaking only briefly when the door slammed again and he realised belatedly that Athos had left.

"I think he's jealous," Aramis murmured as his magician's hands swirled spells across Porthos' skin.

When they reached his waist, he just about managed to nod vigorously before growling compliments into Aramis' grinning mouth.

Utter beloved bastard.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was my first attempt at smut, slash smut, **and** Porthos' PoV, so please let me know if you liked it! Also, feel free to demand more in the comments or prompt me on my [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/).


	2. Sausage and Beans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is the one that I had originally planned to write, but then gazelle!Aramis had to be written first. Now, having re-watched Rock'n'Rolla today (where I totally ship One-Two and Handsome Bob), this happened.

Who would have thought that Aramis could turn a possible punch-up into something comparatively easy? Normally, Aramis was the one that  _prompted_  the fights, he didn't defuse them. Of course, they had all had to run out of that inn after Trouveau, but at least they were all unharmed.

Athos had been inordinately pleased at the result, claiming that Aramis was the best spy that he could ever hope for. He had coupled that praise with an apologetic smile and a quiet, "As long as you are comfortable with it, of course."

Aramis had laughed, so very low in his throat, and leaned back in his chair until his thigh brushed against Porthos'. "For my brothers, anything."

Porthos knew what was expected of him, even if there was an actual spark of jealousy in his stomach. He had lowered a brow at Aramis, one that the man had termed the ' _watch it_ ' look – as if Aramis didn't have a plethora of his own expressions. "Don't push it."

Aramis had grinned at him, pleasure evident in every line of his body even as he teased, "Possessive is such a good look on you,  _mon cher._ "

Athos had rolled his eyes – and  _that_ was a look that they had both termed, ' _I've had enough of these idiots_ '.

Athos hadn't disagreed with the description, cheeky bugger that he was, but as Athos had accepted his and Aramis' relationship with nothing more than a muttered, "Wonderful," when Aramis had blown him a kiss across the breakfast table, Porthos let their surly leader get away with it.

Even if Athos did look as if he hoped all of their future targets would fall to Aramis' charms.

Still, Porthos couldn't disagree that Aramis' flirtation had made their work a lot easier. There was less fuss, less blood, less  _mess…_  Okay, well, there was still mess, but at least it was  _theirs._

And if the next few nights had been any indication, they hadn't needed the adrenaline of a mission to have them ending the night in ecstatic cries and low groans.

This was why, when they had fallen into another inn, in another town, in another month, and Porthos had already fallen asleep in his saddle once, it had only taken one intent look from Athos for Porthos to feel a strange clenching in his gut.

This look said, ' _Well_?'

And a sly tilt of Aramis' lip had given him the answer.

Utter dutiful bastard.

Aramis, of course, immediately turned to him and slid a warm hand down his back where no one except Athos could see. "Will you be my hero, Porthos?"

It was a sneaky tactic, trying to appeal to his protective nature.

It worked.

"O' course."

Aramis' smile was delighted, as if he had genuinely expected Porthos to say anything else.

He gave him the ' _watch it_ ' look, and Aramis' smile turned heated, a sultry question of, ' _or what_?'

Utter tantalising bastard.

Athos pushed between them both with a quiet – and yet surprisingly prim, "Not in front of the target, thank you."

The  _target_ was Marcel Pettiere, an informant with his thumbs in way too many pies.

For a guy with the mental pressure of a battering ram, he certainly didn't look it. If this guy had any brains at all, that was all he had, 'cause he certainly had no brawn. Marcel couldn't have ever lifted anything heavier than a quill in all of his life.

He was skinny, with small shoulders and a chin so weak that Porthos was surprised he didn't break it just by yawning.

He supposed that this was better; at least he didn't have to worry about Aramis' safety this time.

Still, he wasn't happy; it didn't feel as if the scene would play for his delectation anymore. Perhaps it was because he had finally tasted those lips that Aramis was once again nibbling on, or perhaps it was because their target was inherently  _different_ this time.

None of them deserved Aramis, but this one, Marcel, was… weak.

Aramis' hip was casually pushed into his and he relished the subtle contact before Aramis would have to go and play the victim, but then he felt eyes prickling up his left side.

Porthos turned nonchalantly and saw that it was none other than Marcel, and he was definitely making doe eyes at Aramis. Aramis who still had his arquebus and cloak on, making him look like the dangerous leopard that he truly was.

The target was no Trouveau, he didn't want Aramis' ' _come-hither-please_ ' stare or his shy glances at the floor. In fact, Marcel was managing those pretty well himself – except that he wasn't a patch on Aramis, of course.

With a chuckle, Porthos leaned into Aramis – acutely aware that fixation had suddenly sparked in Marcel's doe eyes – and murmured, "Be yourself, tonight."

Aramis raised an eyebrow that was part in confusion, and part the burning desire that still hadn't left since that night with Trouveau over a month ago.

"Marcel don't want a gazelle," he explained quietly, "He wants a leopard, show him your claws."

Something raced across Aramis' face. Surprise, interest, fascination,  _hunger._

It said, 'I expect you to tell me  _exactly_ what that means, later,' and it was a seductive threat and a sensual promise all in one.

Aramis made a show of checking his arquebus for nicks, sliding his hand down the length of the barrel until Porthos kicked him.

Utter flirtatious bastard.

This time, when Aramis strode over to the target, it was with a cloak of complete arrogance on his shoulders and a captivating hardness to his face.

Aramis holstered his arquebus one-handed, and to Porthos' own surprise, he was immediately rock hard at the sight of  _this_ Aramis, and judging by the thrilled expectance on Marcel's face, so was he.

Porthos was closer this time, could hear the conversation with enough ease that if he had wanted to close his eyes, he could have pretended that Aramis was talking to him.

But once again, he couldn't look away.

"Move," Aramis ordered lowly, and Marcel practically scrambled out of the way so that Aramis could sit next to him. His handsome features were closed, daring back-chat with a look that said he had killed before, and he might have enjoyed it. "A little birdie told me that you have some information."

There was a very discernible hitch in the man's excited response, "I know a little about a lot, it's true."

Porthos weighed up the options with the one sane part of his brain that wasn't drooling over Aramis. The target evidently knew something, and although he didn't seem opposed to telling the domineering Musketeer by his side, it looked like it was going to take some time to get it out him.

Porthos didn't have time, he wanted Aramis  _now._ He wanted to screw the mission and screw Aramis instead.

Aramis idly looked around the room and deliberately caught his eye. With that inborn skill of his, he evidently knew that Porthos was practically coming apart already. Aramis' eyes flared brighter with that secret knowledge, and when he turned them on the target, Porthos knew that they were both goners for the slender man.

It wasn't the ' _come-hither_ ' this time, it was ' _run-and-I'll-catch-you_ '.

Aramis leaned forward until he was scant inches from the man's neck, but his eyes were locked with Porthos'.

"Get up," he murmured with such authority that Porthos quivered, he hadn't even known Aramis could  _do_ this, let alone do it so well that even he was shaking with desire. "Get outside, and you will wait for me in the hallway. Do you understand?"

There was a babble of agreement and then the target was off like a shot, leaving Aramis poised over the back of the chair and looking very much like he wanted to be taken whilst leaning over it.

Porthos groaned and looked away, unable to look at his lover when he spoke so dirtily through facial expression alone.

When he looked back, Aramis had gone, and a void opened in his chest. Fear, anxiety, loneliness, jealousy.

Someone turned him away from the room to face the empty corner, and then Aramis' hand dragged a hard path from Porthos' chest to his groin, Aramis' fingers curling over the cloth to palm his length in a way that made him cough to hide the noise of desire.

"Upstairs," Aramis muttered forcefully, "Now."

Porthos understood how Marcel had felt, he practically tripped over his own feet to obey the authority on Aramis' face, but now it was warmed by a smirk, and Porthos knew that he had been tricked.

"Well, well, didn't expect you to enjoy that,  _mon cher._ "

"Shut up," he cursed breathily at Aramis' amusement, but then it darkened into something terrifyingly attractive that made Porthos' throat clench.

"Porthos," he murmured in low command, "You will wait upstairs for me, and you will touch yourself to the thought of me ordering you on your knees."

"Fuck," he managed to grit out, his hands trembling with the urge to do so already.

"That will come later," Aramis teased, and then whispered hotly, "Go!"

Porthos felt Aramis' smug smile on his back as he ran for the stairs, but he didn't care. He had thought that it was glorious enough to see Aramis playing the innocent, to hide the predator that he was underneath, but to  _see_ the predator…

To have it at his throat and telling him what to do, in Aramis' melodious voice, was ecstasy.

Need was a burning hot whip inside of him, it cracked and burned until he was fumbling for his breeches with one hand and turning the door handle with the other.

It was only when his fingers grasped his cock and the door was slamming behind him that he realised he was doing exactly what Aramis had said.

Utter manipulative bastard.

He had to slow down, he had to stop completely, because otherwise he was going to be flashing Aramis a guilty look and not much else.

Not that it took much effort to get back in the mood when Aramis was particularly insistent.

His groan echoed through the empty room and he hoped to God that Aramis didn't dick around and take his sweet time, tonight.

His plea was answered immediately when the door clicked open and he heard a sultry, "Well, aren't  _you_ a good boy?"

Porthos' cock jerked in his hand, and before he could turn around, Aramis' chin rested on his shoulder and his arms encircled his waist. Aramis ran an insanely possessive hand down his front, cupping him through his breeches and murmuring tauntingly, "Like a man that's never been touched."

"Goddamnit, Aramis," he growled, "Did you get it?"

"Of course," Aramis replied casually and rolled his hips until Porthos felt a line of heat slot against his ass. When he moaned, Aramis laughed in dark satisfaction, "Down, boy."

Porthos struggled for a moment. Aramis was taking too much enjoyment at his expense, it wasn't fair.  _He_ was the one who crowded, he had the bulk  _to_ crowd – he was the stronger of the pair of them.

"Aramis, get over he-" he started to growl, determined to wrest back control, but then a circle of freezing metal pushed under his chin.

Aramis had game.

Game and a gun.

He ever-so-slowly lifted his neck as Aramis walked around to his front, and then Porthos looked down into chocolate eyes that blazed with love and dominance.

Fireworks exploded at every point of his body, they sizzled up his legs, flared in his stomach, glittered in his chest, and blinded his eyes.

 _Need_ hit him like draft horse and, when Aramis clicked the safety of his pistol, Porthos groaned in absolute desire.

It surprised them both.

Aramis' breath caught even as his smile was like something a siren gave sailors to ensure they wrecked on the rocks.

Danger was a seductive presence in the room, and it wasn't just emanating from the deadly barrel against his skin. It was contained in the most gorgeous of packages that Porthos had ever seen, and it was Aramis.

"Fuck, Aramis," he growled helplessly, and Aramis' pupils blew outwards.

Porthos snatched the gun when Aramis' eyelids fluttered, because Porthos still knew how to make him stumble. He tossed it aside, but as he turned to grin triumphantly at Aramis, a blade kissed his throat.

"Okay," he said hoarsely, desire roughening his voice, "Why?"

Aramis smiled lazily, the flat of his knife pressed against Porthos' neck. "I tangle with a tiger, I need some power."

Porthos laughed low in his throat, adoring the description, how Aramis responded to his nickname in kind, and because Aramis was blind.

"Aramis, you've only gotta smile an' I'm yours."

Aramis did, then, and it was sweet even as it was seductive, so Porthos murmured again, "All yours."

The knife disappeared, flung across the room until it landed point first in the wall with a resounding 'twang', and then Aramis was on him, all claws and teeth.

"Against the wall," Aramis ordered against his lips, and for all he was twice Aramis' size, Porthos still had the breath smashed out of him when Aramis' palms pushed at his chest. "Good boy."

He tried to dig his fingers into Aramis' hair but gasped a curse when Aramis slammed the arm against the wall and held it there. Porthos tried to steady the outrageous jump in his breathing, but only managed to pant, "Y'know I could just move it."

"How do you know I don't have more weapons?" Aramis asked, a promise in his sly smile.

The knowledge that Aramis would definitely have more firepower somewhere only served to rack up the excitement.  _This_  was Aramis' dominance, his overpowering strength, because he knew that Porthos wouldn't be corralled otherwise.

He wanted too much to let words hold him still.

But the threat of a blade or barrel? Yeah, that worked.

"Now," Aramis asked huskily, "What was it I said you should think about?"

Memory assailed him, of when he had first stumbled into the room and almost spilled straight away at the thought of being forced to his knees.

"Fuck," he hissed when Aramis' hand became a pressure on his shoulder.

He probably fell to the floor far quicker than his dignity preferred, but Christ if he wasn't wanting what happened next. Aramis let out a tiny whimper of noise when Porthos' fingers tangled in the knot and rubbed far more than was necessary against Aramis' cock.

"Porthos, plea-" Aramis cut himself off and then something decadent took him over. Aramis' spine stiffened and then a hand cupped Porthos' jaw. He followed the tug and lifted his head, meeting a gaze that wasn't helpless in its arousal anymore, oh no, Aramis knew what he wanted.

"Porthos," came the low order, "Stop fucking about and suck me off."

Porthos felt his stomach buckle as he groaned, ridiculously mind-blowing arousal destroying every thought in his head as he heard those rough words from Aramis' graceful mouth.

The tangled knot of Aramis' breeches was undone now, he only had to thread one more lace and he could do what he had been thinking about since he fell into this damn room.

"S'better if you're against the wall," he muttered, and felt the strangest amount of delicious fear race through him when Aramis simply raised an eyebrow. "Trust me, s'more comfortable."

Although Aramis curved his fingers so that his nails bit into the underside of his jaw, he did as he was told and moved them both around.

Porthos was still acutely aware that he was not in control of this situation, and he knew it was a good thing he was already on the floor, because his limbs felt amazingly limp with desire.

He waited a second longer, just to see what Aramis would do, and was at once punished and rewarded by Aramis scoring his nails through his hair just hard enough to hurt.

It was an unspoken order, and Porthos obeyed.

Aramis strangled a noise of need when he looked down and saw Porthos almost reverently holding his cock in his large hands, but Porthos heard it true when Aramis' tip touched the back of his throat.

There were curses in a multitude of languages and then Aramis' hips twitched, sending his cock almost uncomfortably deeper. Aramis opened his mouth to apologise, but then his fingers twisted into a fist as he tried to stop himself from being gallant.

Porthos chuckled and the rumbles made Aramis swear outrageously.

He pulled back, tasting the light, salty liquid that somehow managed to taste like Heaven. Aramis was panting but trying ever-so-hard to look foreboding, and Porthos found it so damn erotic.

"You alright there?" he asked, willing to risk another gun to the throat if it meant Aramis would growl at him again.

Aramis stared at him for a moment, breath heaving in his chest, and then did the strangest thing. He let his fingers fall to cup Porthos' jaw again, and slowly hunkered down so that they were eye-to-eye.

Anticipation was a cramping poison in his veins that felt so fucking good.

Aramis' fingers tightened around his chin as he leaned forward to nip painfully at his lip. "If I didn't have other uses for this," Aramis murmured, "I would gag you. Is that what you want?"

He was allowed one frantic shake of his head before Aramis' held him still again, a pleased smile playing about his lips. "I thought not."

Porthos blinked past a dizzying amount of desire, feeling heat thrum through him so thoroughly that he thought he might be on fire.

Aramis had stood again, his fingers returning to Porthos' scalp, and one elegant eyebrow raised in a, ' _well, go on then_ ', look.

He sucked on tan sweetness and savoured the throaty moan Aramis gave, brown eyes lidded as he watched Porthos work.

His other hand was clenched around Aramis' thigh but he had to keep reminding himself to let go, wary of hurting him in his distracted lust. Just as he thought he might have bruised the tender flesh, Aramis caught his eye and breathed, "Touch yourself."

Porthos shuddered, his throat closing for a second as his fingers closed around his cock. Aramis' laugh was a gasp and a groan, his gaze fixated on the way Porthos' was pleasuring them both at the exact same time.

It was too much, he had already been so fucking close, and with Aramis looming over him and the sweet and salty perfection in his mouth, he couldn't-

He came with a jerk, a stifled cry that caused his grip to tighten and then Aramis' fingers dug into his scalp as he swore in surprise.

"Por _thos_ ," Aramis cried, and then his spine arched, his other hand slamming against the wall as his release poured down Porthos' throat.

Porthos didn't miss how, despite Aramis' had almost thrown his head back, he was carefully watching Porthos to see what he would do next.

When he swallowed, Aramis groaned, and then his head did smack into the wall.

Porthos laughed and carefully let Aramis go before forcing his legs to work and sliding up the wall. Aramis collapsed against his chest and shuddered, aftershocks sparking along them both in delicious waves.

"Well," he started delightedly, but then Aramis took a deep breath and gently pushed him backwards towards the bed. "Aramis, what-"

"Go," Aramis muttered against his neck, and when Porthos sat down, rewarded him with a smile. "Wait here."

"I think you've done enough orderin' tonight."

Aramis' smirk still managed to turn him on, despite exhaustion tingling at his awareness. Aramis wandered off to the corner and returned with what looked like a bucket, but it couldn't be.

That was his job.

When he opened his mouth to protest, Aramis pushed him on the chest until he fell backwards, and then gently started cleaning them both up. Porthos was oddly touched by the soft murmurs of Spanish that he knew were endearments. Aramis' hands were gentle as if he was stitching the most grievous of wounds.

"That was fun," Porthos supplied needlessly, and chuckled when Aramis raised an amused eyebrow and looked at the evidence of such fun between them.

"It certainly revealed something about you that I didn't know."

"Me either," Porthos admitted with a shrug and a tiny flush, one that Aramis immediately noticed and prompted him to kneel on the bed to press their lips together in a soft kiss. It was praise and acceptance and adoration, confirmation that everything was  _good_.

"I liked it," Aramis purred, and Porthos grinned for a bit before grimacing. Aramis frowned in concern. "You didn't?"

"No, I did, a lot," he said quickly. Aramis smirked and sat back on his heels to wait for him to complain. "S'just, I like doing," he gestured at the water, "This."

It was only a small part of what he meant, that he liked looking after Aramis, he liked being the protective one – Aramis was too, of course, but it was in his own romantic, healer's way.

Aramis considered that for a moment and then tossed the damp cloth away, cleaning done, and straddled him, leaning forward to hum in pleased agreement against his mouth. "And I like watching you do it."

"Yeah?"

"Yes, I'm far too gorgeous to do the cleaning," Aramis announced haughtily, lifting his nose up until it threw his jawline into stark relief and Porthos couldn't resist lunging for it.

He clamped his teeth around jugular and tugged Aramis down, rolling him over until he was on his back and laughing. When Porthos had bitten his fill, he rose up on his arms and regarded the dazed expression in Aramis' eyes – the one that Porthos most loved, and the one he could put there when he… did the cleaning.

"True, you are," Porthos admitted matter-of-factly, trying not to smile at Aramis' smug grin. "And you're pickin' up on my bad habits, that was terrible."

"I know," Aramis sighed melodramatically. "First the cleaning, now the bad jokes, maybe I'll work on muscle next – eat nothing but meat and lift weights for weeks?"

"Don't you dare," Porthos growled, playing right into Aramis' hand, because it was where he loved to be. "You're a slender slash of sunshine and already perfect."

Aramis inhaled sharply, and then soft delight glimmered across his features as he slowly lifted his head, asking for a kiss.

Tender adoration trickled through Porthos' veins, twining sweetly with the sleepiness that threatened to overcome him, and he leaned down to kiss the love of his life.

"How perfect?" Aramis asked when Porthos eased down beside him and Aramis settled onto his chest, where he belonged, with his cheek against the heart that beat just for him.

"Utterly."

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is listed as complete but I may use it to fuel my occasional need for writing Portamis smut. Let me know if you would like another chapter (Porthos being sarcastic in bed, Aramis using his tricks to shut him up?) Comments are fuel and I love them so.
> 
> Also, come find me at my [Tumblr](http://comehitherashes.tumblr.com/)!


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